


Smiling, with porcelain lips and glass eyes

by watanuki_sama



Category: Common Law (TV)
Genre: Abandonment Issues, Abuse, Canon-Compliant, Character Study, Child Abuse, Depression, M/M, Panic Attacks, Pre-Slash, Some Swearing, Travis has a lot of issues, Travis-centric, Trust Issues, non-linear storytelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-16 16:42:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11832792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watanuki_sama/pseuds/watanuki_sama
Summary: Sometimes Travis feels like he’s cracking apart.





	Smiling, with porcelain lips and glass eyes

**Author's Note:**

> An introspective Travis-piece based on the premise that Travis is equally, if not moreso fucked up than Wes. He’s just a hell of a lot better at hiding it.
> 
>  
> 
> Also posted on FF.net under the penname 'EFAW' on 08.17.17.

_“Everyone thinks that we’re perfect, please don’t let them look through the curtains.”_   
_—Melanie Martinez, “Dollhouse”_

\---

01.

Sometimes Travis feels like he’s cracking apart.

\---

02.

_There’s a ‘pop, pop,’ like the crack of cherry bombs, and Wes goes down with red blooming on his belly, and something deep inside Travis shatters._

\---

03.

There’s a volcano inside him, fire under his skin, dancing in his veins and raging in his heart. It’s a constant anger, an endless ache he can’t control, can barely contain, roaring to be unleashed. It’s rage against a world that’s beat him down so many times, an impotent fury for a life he can do nothing to change.

It breaks free sometimes, a wildfire surging through the cracks in his skin, blinding him to anything but the anger, as devastating as a firestorm. He covers it, hides it beneath a veneer of guileless smiles and cloying charm so thick he wants to gag sometimes, but they see his smiles and they smile right back, beaming and saying things like, “Oh, look how well-adjusted he is,” and “What a _nice_ young man,” and they never see the blaze behind his eyes.

An inferno burns under his skin, but no one ever notices.

\---

04.

Paekman lays facedown in a parking lot, bullets in his back, and Travis feels something inside of him break. His skin is stretched tight over his bones, and his blood boils, threatening to burst out of him, threatening to destroy everything in his path.

He holds it together, for the most part. He has something to work on, dirty cop killers to hunt down. But it doesn’t work, they don’t get the bad guys, and then Crowl leans down and whispers in his ear and Travis—

Travis erupts. All the fury and rage, everything he’s been keeping down, _thirty years_ of fire explodes out of him. There’s no thought, no rationality, just fire and pain and he’s going to make it _end_. He sees red, and he grabs his gun and stands—

The click of a hammer pulls him back, and Wes’s voice—oh, Wes’s voice shakes. When Travis turns, he sees that Wes’s hand is shaking too.

Wes doesn’t shake. Not like that. Not like he’s _scared_. 

Scared of what Travis will do.

Scared _for_ Travis.

It dampens the fire, mutes it into something he can almost ignore, and as they drag his partner away, Travis meets Wes’s eyes, but there’s nothing he can say.

\---

05.

(He’s always known he’s broken. Not outside, but inside, way down deep where no one can see. There is something fundamentally _wrong_ with him. That’s why his mother abandoned him, why none of his foster families kept him, why none of his relationships ever work out. Because he’s wrong and broken and there’s nothing that can change that.

He makes his peace and moves on with his life. Adapt and change, it’s what he’s good at.

It’s how he survives.)

\---

06.

Travis learns.

The first time his foster mother hits him, Travis cries, because he’s so little and it hurts so much. That just earns him another smack, and then Allontae scoops him up and whisks him to the bedroom. “Shh,” his foster sister whispers, wiping tears from his cheeks. “You mustn’t cry, Travis. Shh, you mustn’t cry. Look.” And she kisses his cheek and offers him a bright smile. “See? The pain is already gone. You’re okay.” And Travis sniffles and sticks out his chin and says, “ ‘m not crying. I’m not a _baby_ , I’m a big boy,” and Allontae’s smile is sad and her eyes are full of tears when she puts her hand on his head and says, “Yes, you are.”

Travis learns.

“I was running and I fell off the porch,” Travis explains when his teacher asks him how he got those bruises. She frowns and tells him to be more careful; he promises he will. “I was climbing this _huge_ tree and fell off the branch,” he tells his friends when they ask, waving his hands to show just how high the tree was. At recess, he leaps from the top of the jungle gym, and in the nurses’ office, he says “I jumped, it was super cool, it was like _flying!”_ and the nurse rolls her eyes and keeps treating his scrapes. Eventually, they just stop asking. Boys will be boys, after all.

Travis learns.

“Smile,” his foster father hisses, digging his fingers into Travis’s shoulder, and he automatically pastes a smile on his face. Across the aisle, Yuki is standing next to their foster mother, holding the grocery basket with a china-doll smile of her own. She meets his eyes and they share a look without ever shifting their expressions. Later, when a clueless coworker bumps into them by the produce and says, “You must be so happy to be fostered by such nice people!” Travis turns the wattage up on his smile and chirps, “It’s wonderful, ma’am.” His foster mother beams approvingly over her coworker’s shoulder, and Travis never lets the paper smile waver.

Travis learns.

He knows the signs to look out for, so he’s already got the little ones upstairs under Molly’s watchful gaze by the time their foster father staggers in. Travis hopes it’ll be an easy night, when the man drops in his recliner and sleeps for ten hours, but no, he’s heading for the stairs. Travis curses under his breath and steps into view, and it’s a matter of a few words to draw his foster father’s attention—and fists—onto him. And it hurts, of course it does, but Travis has gotten good at distancing himself from the pain. Besides, it’s so much better than seeing the same happen to Molly or Gabe or little Jessica. He’s more than willing to suffer every punch and kick and vile, spewed word than see a single bruise on their skin.

Travis learns. 

He absorbs every unspoken lesson, and he learns how to survive.

\---

07.

Travis has a cardboard box under his bed. Inside that box is a ragged Cabbage Patch doll and a manila folder containing everything he knows about himself and his family.

Once he made detective, Travis dipped into his savings and hired a PI to find his birth mother. Travis didn’t know what he would do when he met her, if he would hug her or yell at her, but he wanted the option.

After almost six months of searching, the PI came back and said he’d found…nothing. The manila folder in the box under his bed is empty.

Sometimes Travis will pull it out, open the folder and look at the empty space inside it and realize he still has no idea who he is.

\---

08.

Travis’s least favorite movie is _The Wizard Of Oz_. The entire film is a story of a girl trying to find her way home, and it resonates too deeply. He’s spent his entire life trying to find a place he can call home, but he’s never managed. It was always only temporary when he was a kid, and now that he’s grown it still seems just as temporary. He moved out of his trailer and into an apartment but it still feels like he’s about to be uprooted at any moment.

There’s no place like home, Dorothy says, but Travis will never know.

\---

09.

“You ever gonna move out of this hotel?” Travis asks, flopping down onto the couch in Wes’s hotel room. Wes merely shrugs and gestures for him to move his feet, which is a lot more telling than he realizes. And Travis idly wonders if it’s been so long that despite the transient nature of the hotel Wes has settled in, that Wes can’t _bring_ himself to move. 

He’s different from Travis that way. Wes never learned to let go.

“I could help you find a place,” he offers, and just beams brightly when Wes turns an annoyed stinkeye on him.

“I’m fine,” Wes snaps, and Travis hums like he believes it, even though he totally doesn’t.

\---

10.

(Here’s something else he knows: Wes is just as broken as he is.

Maybe that’s why they work so well together. Their broken edges come together to make a semi-coherent whole, something that can almost pass muster. If they were alone they’d both be useless, helpless, but _together_ —

Together, things just seem to work out.)

\--- 

11.

_There’s a ‘pop, pop,’ like the crack of cherry bombs, and Wes goes down and Travis doesn’t think, skids across the floor on his knees and presses down on the growing red spot in Wes’s belly. Wes lets out a strangled shout and spasms, bucking, and Travis holds him down, mindless encouragements and endearments falling off his tongue. He keeps pressure on the wound and Wes scrabbles at the ground and curses around the tears on his cheeks._

_He doesn’t allow himself to think about anything in the ambulance, just hangs on as Wes clutches his hand, tight enough Travis swears his bones are grinding together. “You’re okay, baby, you’re doing great,” he promises, and Wes’s eyes meet his and Travis is startled by the fear in there, overriding the pain. He reaches up, pulls the oxygen mask away and says, “Tell Alex—” and Travis squeezes down on his hand and snaps, “No, you tell her yourself ‘cuz you’re gonna be fine,” and he hangs on as the painkillers kick in and Wes’s gaze goes fuzzy and dim. Travis tightens his grip as Wes slackens his and just keeps promising that everything is going to be fine._

_And then they’re at the hospital, at Travis hangs on as long as he can but they whisk Wes through the double doors and Travis isn’t allowed to follow. He’s left standing in the hallway with blood on his hands and fear strangling his throat, and even though he tries not to think of the possibilities, they race through his mind, a dizzying circle of fear and worst-case scenarios. Because Wes totally isn’t going to die, it’s just a little stomach wound, he’s going to bounce right back, but what if—_

_He doesn’t know how to do this. He’s floundering and there’s nothing he can do to make it better. All he can do now is wait, and he’s never been very good at waiting. All he can do is think, and all he can think of are the worst possible things._

_He stumbles to the bathroom and throws up, leaving bloody streaks on the edge of the toilet. When he sees the red handprints on the porcelain, he leans over and throws up again. There isn’t enough hot water in the world to get all the blood off, even when the water runs clear he’s scrubbing at his palms with soap and scalding water. He can’t stop shaking, and he’s about three seconds away from crying._

_“Fuck,” he whispers, and then louder, “Fuck,” because his partner is in there and he could die and Travis doesn’t know how to do this._

_“Fuck,” he says, one more time for good measure, and then the world is spinning beneath him and he sinks to the floor and buries his face in his hands and he implodes. He shatters into a billion pieces and all he can see is red, red blood, on the floor, on his hands, and the only reason he doesn’t throw up again is because he’s crying too hard._

\---

12.

Sometimes Travis implodes.

They talk about Wes in therapy, how he’s in denial and bottles things up, but that’s just ‘cuz Wes is so raw and vulnerable and lets way more show on his face than he ever intends.

Travis is the better actor. He knows how to smile and charm his way out of questions he doesn’t want to answer, how to deflect everything Wes’s way so his partner bears the brunt of the attack and no one ever looks too closely beneath Travis’s shiny exterior to the ruin underneath.

Travis doesn’t let things bother him, but it doesn’t just slough off his skin. He absorbs everything, internalizes it and shoves it down where it can’t affect him. He just doesn’t let it show on his face.

And sometimes, when he’s pushed too much down, Travis implodes. It all comes rushing through him at once, everything he’s pushed away, and it sweeps through him, an overwhelming sense of _terror_ and he can’t—he can’t—! And the ground spins away and he’s falling, falling, falling, gasping for breath that isn’t there as the world fades away and he’s freezing, he’s burning, he’s falling apart and it’s neverending—

Except it does, eventually, end, and he’s left shaky and weak, pulling himself together piece by broken puzzle piece. He’s hollowed out, empty inside, everything swept away by the force that just ripped through him, and all he wants to do is cry and then possibly curl up and die.

The attacks are the worst thing he’s ever experienced, no doubt. He wouldn’t wish it on his worst enemy. But the aftermath isn’t much better.

\---

13.

He implodes in front of Phil once. It’s been a long, horrible day—the ones with kids always hit him the hardest—and Travis just can’t hold it in until he gets home. He falls apart in the parking lot, and Phil freaks the fuck out. It’s all Travis can do to keep his partner from calling an ambulance.

For a week after the attack, they don’t talk about it, but Phil smiles too much and claps him too hard on the shoulder and basically treats Travis with kid gloves no matter how many times Travis says he’s fine.

He doesn’t fall apart in front of Phil again.

He implodes in front of Dan once, sort of. He can feel it coming, so he excuses himself and locks himself in the bathroom for twenty minutes. When he finally emerges, shaky and unsteady and empty inside, Dan takes one look at him, pulls a flask from his desk drawer, and tips it into Travis’s coffee cup, ordering, “Take a drink and fortify yourself, T, we’ve got work to do.”

Travis doesn’t fall apart in front of Dan again.

He implodes in front of various family members over the years, but the one that sticks in his mind is when it happens in front of foster mother #12. A nice woman who cares so much, but she’s not equipped to handle the situation when her foster child starts having a panic attack in the middle of the living room. Travis winds up in the hospital with his foster mom hovering worriedly at his side and the doctors and shrinks asking too many questions he simply doesn’t know how to answer.

He gets a bottle of pills he never takes and a lesson that’s engraved in the space between his ribs.

Hold it in. Don’t let it show. Don’t fall apart in front of anyone else, because no one else can help.

\---

14.

He implodes in front of Wes once. They’re in the car, driving back from a witness interview, and his throat tightens and his heart starts racing. There’s nothing, there’s _absolutely nothing_ that should have brought this on, but it happens like this sometimes, no warning, supernova coming out of nowhere to rip him to pieces.

He tells Wes to stop the car, leaps out as soon as the brakes are tapped because he’s got to go, got to—Brick wall under his hands and he clutches at it, rough stone scraping his fingers, but even that’s fading as he stands there, gasping for air that isn’t there, and then it’s on him and he’s falling, falling and the world is shattering apart around him.

He is aware, dimly, of Wes calling his name, worried and upset, and Travis closes his eyes and sincerely hopes Wes doesn’t call an ambulance because he so does not need that right now. A little later (or maybe not; time stretches thin and tenuous during this) he feels warmth pressed against this side, hears a voice, low and familiar, and he clings to it, some small proof that there’s something outside himself, outside of this neverending terror ripping him apart.

He’s not certain it helps, but it certainly doesn’t hurt.

Eventually, slowly, he comes back to himself. He is acutely aware of himself, every inch of his body, every nerve ending alight with sensation; he’s intensely aware of his position, curled in a ball, tucked into Wes’s side, his partner’s arm wrapped protectively around his shoulder, but he can’t do more than sit there trembling.

Wes’s voice washes over him, a steady, monotonous cadence, and Travis closes his eyes and lets it sweep over him, sink into his skin and stitch together all the patchwork pieces of his heart. Lets Wes’s presence ground him, stabilize him, and it’s not a perfect solution but it works well enough, sings a reminder to Travis: _You are here, you are alive, you will survive._

“Are you reciting civil code at me?” he asks in a hoarse rasp, like he’s been screaming (but only inside his head). The voice above him abruptly ceases, and Travis opens his eyes, staring at the far side of the alley. “Your suit’s gonna be a mess after this, you know.”

“Come on,” Wes says, not unkindly, and hauls him to his feet, which normally Travis would complain about but he’s been wrung dry, can taste salt on his cheeks, and it’s almost a relief to let Wes half-carry him to the car, tuck him in the front seat with a blanket and bottle of water from the trunk.

He manages to get the cap off the water bottle himself, but his jittery hands splash water all over the floor. He stares at the dark, wet spots and feels his eyes well up, throat tightening, and it takes everything he has left not to start weeping in front of his partner. “Sorry,” he says, for more than just the water, “I’m sorry, I…”

“I used to have anxiety attacks when I went to court,” Wes says flatly, staring out the window with his hands tight on the steering wheel. Travis stares at him. Wes swallows hard, throat bobbing. “Not quite like that, not exactly, but it…” and his eyes flicker towards Travis’s and away again. “I get it, okay? So don’t…don’t apologize.”

This time when the tears come bursting up, Travis doesn’t even try to quell them.

\---

15.

Travis goes home exhausted. It’s not weariness from the rigors of the day—his body may show the cuts and contusions from whatever harrowing chase he went on, but it doesn’t reflect the aching in his bones and muscles, a weight that drags on his entire body. It’s bone deep, coring right into his soul, and sometimes all Travis wants to do when he gets home is fall facedown on his bed and crash.

The nights when he goes home alone, he slumps against the door and closes his eyes and unravels, letting everything just fall off of him in pieces, one by one until there’s nothing left. Until he’s just a man-shaped figure slumped against the wall, with nothing holding him together but glue and puppet strings.

The hardest thing isn’t letting go. It’s putting himself back together in the morning. 

\---

16.

It’s been a long hard day, and Travis can feel the weight of it pressing down on his shoulders, making him want to just drop right there on his desk and collapse. Or maybe he’ll start crying—he can feel tears prickling at the back of his eyelids because it’s been one piece of shit after another and they’re no closer than they were this morning and he’s so _fucking tired_ , and he drops his face in his hands and does his very best not to break down in the middle of the squad room.

A hand curls around the back of his neck with a whiff of Purell, solid and reassuring, and Travis leans into the touch, lets the warmth of Wes’s hand sink into his skin like it might reach some of the cold empty places inside of him. Wes doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask for anything, just quietly sweeps his thumb over Travis’s neck, a silent comfort that almost makes Travis want to cry even more than he did a moment ago.

It’s funny. For a man who doesn’t like to be touched, Wes sure seems to know when Travis can use it the most.

\---

17.

The truth hurts.

_“He’s a troublemaker,”_ his teachers tell his foster parents, shaking their heads sadly, and Travis stares at his feet and swings his legs under the chair, listening to the litany of complaints. Disruptive during class, distracting the other students, not paying attention to his lessons, and Travis doesn’t know how to explain it to them, how to tell them that his brain is buzzing a thousand miles an hour and his body twitches whenever he sits still too long and he just needs to _move_ and _do something_. He doesn’t know how to say it, so he bites his lip and doesn’t say anything at all.

_“Attention-seeking behavior,”_ one psychologist writes in a report he sneaks a peek at, and it makes Travis want to laugh. Attention, this isn’t about _attention_ , this is about _need_ , about being invisible in a dozen foster homes and being ignored by his classmates because he’s just a foster kid, he doesn’t fit in, so they ignore him and he ignores them in turn. He’s not acting out because he wants the attention; he’s acting out because he’s crying _Look at me, look at me!_ and no one ever does.

_“Are you even capable of loving someone else, or just yourself?”_ one boyfriend asks as he storms out, and after the door closes Travis collapses on the floor, laughing. Travis loves, god, some days it feels like he loves every single thing around him, the people walking down the sidewalk and the birds in the sky and every stray cat or dog he sees. He cares _so damn much_ about everything, there’s plenty of love there even if it’s not exactly what anyone wants. But loving _himself?_ Oh, what a joke, and Travis laughs until tears run down his cheeks.

_“One therapist said it’s because I’m attracted to abusive relationships,”_ he says, leaning over a body in the middle of a tunnel. It’s a flippant little answer to a semi-serious question, and while it’s not _untrue_ —he knows exactly why that therapist said what she did, has a list of names in the back of his mind who would probably meet the textbook definition of ‘abusive’—he’s not certain it’s entirely _accurate_. Because Wes is an asshole, but he’s not _abusive_. Still, he gets a nasty sort of satisfaction in seeing the little way Wes flinches at that.

_“What the hell is wrong with you?”_ Wes screams at him even as he’s patting Travis down, because when Wes is worried he gets pissed. Travis leans into the contact, shaky after his close call, close enough he could feel the bullets whipping past him, but it worked, they got what they needed so he just grins and holds two fingers up in a peace sign. Wes clucks his tongue and shakes his head and mutters the question again, and Travis has to bite his tongue to keep from answering, _Everything_.

\---

18.

For all that he craves attention and intimacy, in so many ways it’s just _easier_ to be alone. He doesn’t have to worry about being abandoned again, about being left behind. He knows how to take care of himself, he’s been doing it a long time now. And when he falls apart, there’s no one there to freak out.

When he inevitably fails to live up to expectations, there’s no one to disappoint but himself.

\---

19.

_A small eternity later, he crawls to his feet, clutching the sink for support. The mirror shows a hideous reflection, but that can be explained by the fact that his partner was shot (oh god oh god oh god). He takes a few deep breaths, does his best to calm the shaking in his hands—only marginally successful—then he scrubs the tears off his face, dries his hands, and goes out to wait._

_“Travis!”_

_Alex comes racing down the hall before he’s halfway to the waiting room, eyes wide and hair flying. He stops and she skids to a halt in front of him, and it’s easy to open his arms and let her fall into his embrace, easy to support her when she needs it right now, easier to focus on her pain than the turmoil inside of him. She clings to him the way Wes did in the ambulance, like she’s about to break apart, like he’s the only thing keeping her together, the only thing keeping her upright, so he locks his knees and refuses to fall._

_“Tell me he’s going to be okay,” she whispers into his shoulder, staring at the closed doors. “I just…he has to be okay.”_

_Travis draws in a breath and stiffens his spine and lets her lean on him, holding her tight as he promises, “He’s going to be fine,” and there’s hardly a waver in his voice at all._

_This, at least, he knows how to do._

\---

20.

One of his foster mothers patted his cheek once and said, “You, Travis, could be quite the con artist if you weren’t such a good boy,” and he’d hard to bite the inside of his cheek hard to keep his smile from dropping, to keep from letting on how those words lanced right through his heart.

He could be a con artist—might as well be one, really. He already knows all the tricks of the trade, throws up a slick exterior and talks fast so no one looks beneath the surface, deflects their attention away from what’s really going on.

He can read people. More than that, he’s _good_ at it. It’s easier, really, to give people what they want, to look at their faces and their bodies and meet their expectations before they even have to ask. 

Travis Marks knows exactly what he is.

At his heart, he’s a liar. Defense mechanism, survival instinct, call it what you will, Travis mastered it long ago. If he gives them what they want, he can’t possibly disappoint them.

If he can see when they’re getting tired of him, he can drop them first, and save himself all the pain, and he’ll smile the whole way through.

(The greatest con he ever pulled was convincing the world he’s okay.)

\---

21.

Travis knows how to game the system before he hits double digits. Every single time he moves, there’s a new shrink, but they all ask the same questions, and Travis has figured out the answers they want to hear, the things that will make them smile as they send him away because oh, what a good, well-adjusted child he is. It doesn’t do any good to complain, he’s found—it just leads to ten thousand questions and constant visits he’d rather just avoid.

Puberty is rough, and he lets his temper get the better of him one time too many. He ends up sitting in the shrink’s office, glaring at the books behind her head while she tries to get him to talk about his _feelings_ or some shit. Hell no, he’s gonna keep a lid on _that_. God, he just wants to get _out_ of here…

It takes him twenty minutes to realize the answer has been staring him right in the face.

He goes to the library, looks up as many books as he can remember from the shrink’s shelf. He tears through them, reading and absorbing everything he possibly can. The next week, he apologizes for his behavior and charms her with answers he literally ripped from the textbooks. He waits for her to notice; she doesn’t.

He walks out of there with a note in his file and a comment from the shrink that he’s the most well-adjusted young man she’s ever met. Mission accomplished.

He never has a problem with the shrinks again.

\---

22.

Before Wes, it’s easy. 

In Narco, at the beginning, Travis mostly works alone, but he does have Dan Noone. Dan is easy to work with—he doesn’t like being saddled with a rookie, but at the same time, he enjoys being able to show off his knowledge and teach his little pearls of wisdom. Travis learns more from Dan about catching crooks and making arrests than he did his entire time at the Academy. (To be fair, most of Dan’s teachings are rather… _unconventional_ , and he has a couple of citations that show just why Dan’s methods aren’t more widely taught.)

After Dan, there’s Phil, and Phil…well, Phil just wants a sidekick, someone he can joke around with, who will follow his lead and won’t steal all the glory. Travis learns to smile and nod along; he only makes the mistake of publicly shutting Phil down once. They have their differences, but at the end of the day they usually get their guy, so Travis can’t complain too much.

For a long time, it works, until it doesn’t anymore.

Wes is simple to work with, _easy_ to work with. He wants the same thing Travis does, to catch a killer, nothing more. Until they catch the Gentleman Caller, they’re on the same page, working so effortlessly in sync it would be scary if it didn’t feel so right. It’s.

Hell, it’s _perfect_.

He thinks being promoted to R&H, becoming Wes’s partner for real, will just be more of the same. And it’s…good. They still work well together, still click like gears, making arrests left and right. It’s just, there’s something missing. Something wrong with the equation.

It’s just, he doesn’t know what Wes wants.

\---

23.

He paces in front of his chair in therapy and shouts at Wes. He’s not sure what the fight is about, so it’s probably, let’s face it, something pretty stupid. But he knows what he’s feeling—like a volcano about to erupt, a fiery flood of emotion ready to burst out of him and take out everything in his path.

Wes just sits there, eyes wide and stunned, pinned to the chair by the force of Travis’s outburst and completely helpless against it. That just makes him madder, somehow, like Wes is failing him by not rising up and fighting back, and his words get harsher and angrier, trying to get a rise.

He screams at Wes, over the concerned attempts at mediation by Dr. Ryan, “Dammit, Wes, what do you _want_ from me?!” 

And Wes goes calm, surprise flowing out of him and leaving nothing behind until he’s sitting there empty, still as a statue, blank as a wall. His jaw goes tight and his eyes turn dark and intent and he says, “Nothing.”

And as the world falls out from under Travis’s feet, Wes says, “I want absolutely nothing from you, Travis.”

Later, what Travis remembers most of all is the way he feels hearing those words, like his heart has been gouged out of his chest and torn to shreds, like every vital thing inside of him has been crushed in an instant.

It feels like he’s just died a little, and he simply doesn’t realize it yet.

\---

24.

(This is something he knows about Wes: Wes never says a damn thing he doesn’t mean.

This is something else he knows about Wes: Sometimes, Wes does not always _mean_ what he _says_.

Sometimes Travis forgets that)

\---

25.

He doesn’t know what Wes wants from him.

Wes is…complicated. In some ways, he’s ridiculously easy to read, every raw, naked emotion there on his face to see. Other times, Wes might as well be made of stone, for all the emotion he shows, but that’s just how Wes deals with hurt feelings or emotions he doesn’t want to acknowledge, he just shuts down and doesn’t feel _anything_.

But even at Wes’s most open, Travis can’t read him, can’t figure out what he wants.

Wes wants Travis to do his job. Wes wants Travis to watch his back, support and be supported in turn, do his paperwork without complaining. Wes wants Travis to wipe his feet before getting in the car (yeah right) and stop eating in the car (“I need my snacks, Wes, or my blood sugar’s gonna take a dive!” “God _dammit_ , Travis, use napkins!”) and basically Travis should treat Wes’s car like Wes’s baby (“This car is my pride and joy, Travis, I will actually kill you if you do anything to it”).

But those are just _things_ Wes wants. For all his skill at reading people, Travis doesn’t know what _Wes_ wants, and that is—

_(terrifying exhilarating nervewracking wonderful)_

Travis doesn’t know what that is.

\---

26.

Wes has boundaries. Wes doesn’t like to be touched. Just as important, he doesn’t like his stuff to be touched, especially without permission. He doesn’t like to talk about his feelings (unless it’s about how much Travis is annoying him today), and there are some subjects that Are Not Mentioned At All or they’ll shut Wes down faster than a bullet. If he doesn’t use hand sanitizer like eight times a day, he gets twitchy, and god forbid anyone stand between the man and his coffee.

Travis catalogues all these facts as he learns them, in his little mental file marked ‘Wes, AKA My Asshole Partner’, and he does his best, for the most part, to follow them. He knows how to step lightly, push boundaries just enough to get a reaction but never actually crossing them. He’s used to it, paying attention and following other people’s needs, to the occasional detriment of his own.

He’s so used to it that he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, honestly.

\---

27.

(“You remember that fight we had in therapy?” he asks, much later. “When you said you didn’t want anything from me?”

Wes hums absently. Then his head comes up, face turning a little horrified. “That’s not—I didn’t—”

“I know,” Travis says earnestly. “I misunderstood. I know that now.”

But Wes rises, crosses the distance between them. “I didn’t…” He hesitates, then reaches out, wraps his hand around the back of Travis’s neck, heavy and solid, and Travis doesn’t really need the clarification but Wes says anyway, “I just meant that I don’t _want_ anything from you. You…you’re enough as you are, Travis.”

Maybe he did need the clarification, the assurance, because his eyes prickle with tears and his throat goes kind of tight.

No one’s ever said that before.)

\---

28.

_He’s there’s when Wes wakes, because where else would he be? As soon as Wes stirs, as soon as he hears the low, groggy groan from the bed, Travis is up on his feet, leaning over the rail and smiling down at his partner._

_“Hey, man, how you doin’?”_

_Wes blinks up at him, fuzzy and confused. “Feel…floaty,” he mumbles, struggling to rise. “I don’ like it.”_

_“Hey, no it’s okay.” Travis reaches out, gently pushes Wes back down to the bed. It doesn’t take much. “It’s just the painkillers. I know you don’t like it, buddy, but trust me, you’d feel a lot worse without ‘em.”_

_With a disgruntled noise, Wes settles, blinking slowly at him. Travis pastes on his best smile and pulls up a chair. “But seriously, you doing alright? You want some water?”_

_Wes frowns, the look comically exaggerated by the drugs, and he flops his hand at Travis. “Don’ do that. Don’t put on a show.”_

_Travis pauses. “What?”_

_“Not for me.” Wes closes his eyes, fidgeting restlessly. “Don’t put on a show for me, Travis.”_

_Travis isn’t sure if he should be concerned or not. This isn’t his partner’s typical Wes-on-drugs routine. “Wes, baby, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”_

_“Sure you do.” Wes opens his eyes to slits, squinting at him. “ ‘s acting. Playing roles. Putting on a show.” He exhales, lets his eyes fall closed again. “Don’t do it with me, kay?”_

_A cold chill runs down his spine, and Travis clenches his hands on his knees. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he denies again, for entirely different reasons._

_Normally, Wes would call him out on the bald-faced lie, but Wes is drugged to the gills right now. “Acting,” Wes murmurs, staring lazily at the ceiling. “Always acting. Just stop, Trav.”_

_Travis swallows, clutches the arms of his chair, desperately wanting Wes to stop talking but not quite sure how to make that happen without snapping, and being harsh to the guy on drugs is kind of a big no-no. Voice cracking, he croaks, “Wes…”_

_“Not with me, Travis,” Wes murmurs once more, fumbling clumsily for his hand. Travis reaches out, clasps it tight, and he’s not sure if he’s trembling or Wes is. “Don’ do that to me.”_

_He swallows hard, exhales slowly and drops the plastic smile from his face. “I don’t,” he says, and his voice cracks. He clutches Wes’s hand. “I can’t…Wes, I can’t.”_

_Wes stares at him, eyes deep and bottomless and so intent that if Travis didn’t know better, he’d think Wes was as sane and sober as ever. “I got you,” the blonde says slowly, reassuringly, which is funny coming from a man in a hospital bed. He pats Travis’s hand a little clumsily. “I got you, Trav.”_

_And Travis clutches his hand and doesn’t dare let go._

\---

29.

_“Always put on your face, child.”_

Travis remembers sitting on the end of one of his foster mom’s beds, watching her put on her makeup in the morning. He can’t quite recall which one she is; her face is fuzzy and indistinct in his memory, so she’s probably one of his earliest moms.

He remembers sitting there, feet idly kicking, watching her slender fingers pick up tubes and brushes, transforming her with a touch of color and a steady hand.

“Always put on your face, child,” she’d say through lips lined in crimson. “Never leave the house wearing anything but your best. It’s your battle armor. It will keep the world at bay, and it’ll keep you strong.”

And Travis remembers stilling his feet and nodding solemnly at her advice, absorbing the words into his skin. And he remembers thinking, as he watches his mom walk out the door, _The world out there must be such a scary place._

_“Always put on your face, child.”_

\---

30.

Every morning, Travis stands in the mirror, and he’s empty. Empty and worn-out and nothing but a ghost. He stares at his reflection and he doesn’t know how people can’t see it, how it can be so obvious to him but no one else even _notices_. He’s empty and hollow inside, and there’s nothing in his heart but fire.

Every morning, Travis closes his eyes, and he takes a deep breath. Then another, and another, forcing the fire down, pushing it into the dark depths of his soul. He banks it, tucks it away someplace safe for when he needs it, but he tells himself he won’t need it today. Not today. Fire just burns, and it hurts even the one wielding it.

Every morning, Travis opens his eyes and smiles. He smiles a crooked, empty smile, and when that doesn’t work he tries again. And again. And again, and again, over and over until he finally gets it right, until it comes easily to his lips and there’s a sparkle reflected in his eye.

This is his armor, this is his shield. Smile, and no one looks too deeply.

Smile, and no one can see how empty he really is.

\---

31.

(He leaps over the rail of the stairwell, ignoring Wes’s panicked shouts, and falls on top of their fleeing suspect. He lands hard, jars his knee and scrapes his elbow, but it’s nothing serious, nothing to keep him from whipping his cuffs out and reading the guy his Miranda rights. Wes comes racing down the stairs, eyes wide and face pale, and Travis grins at him, hauling the guy upright. “Man, what took you so long?”

“Are you alright?” Wes’s gaze rakes over Travis, looking like he wants to be patting Travis down. “Are you injured?”

“Naw, man, I’m fine.” Travis waves the concern aside and proudly displays their suspect like a preening cat. “Look who I caught. I’m pretty sure this means I’m winning.”

Wes’s eyes narrow, and he takes a step closer, not rising to the bait. “Travis, you fell half a flight of stairs. Are you alright?”

Travis’s knee is throbbing and his elbow is stinging like a motherfucker, but as much fun as whining over papercuts can be, just to see Wes’s face twist, Travis knows that if he says anything he’ll get hauled to the ER and fussed over until he’s ready to explode.

So he just smiles and says, “Dude, I’m totally fine. Nothing to freak out over.”

Wes’s face goes flat, mouth twisting unhappily. As Travis marches their guy to the car, he almost misses Wes’s muttered words.

“Of course you’re fine. You’re always fine, aren’t you, Travis?”

Travis isn’t sure if it’s actually aimed towards him or not.)

\---

32.

Sometimes it feels like Wes can see right through him.

\---

33.

He meets Emily Xiang his second year of college at a party. She’s a theater major—he goes to every one of her performances, no matter how small, and he brings her flowers. She dances to stay in shape, and she’s really flexible, and she’s more than happy to talk about herself and her performances for hours. It’s going great.

So Travis, for once, is taken completely by surprise when she gathers all her stuff from his apartment and says it’s over.

“Because, Travis,” she says when he asks, “You’re fun. You’re a great guy. But you should be onstage.” She smiles, then, a sad, melancholy thing. “You’re not real.”

“What?” He gapes at her. “That doesn’t even make sense!”

She gives him a look laced with pity and says, “You’re playing a role, and I’m not part of your play. So goodbye, Travis.” And then she’s gone, leaving him with a cold, broken hurt.

He pushes the pain aside. He’s good at that. 

“Actors,” Travis scoffs, and doesn’t (let himself) think about it again.

\---

34.

During his first year in Narco, a case comes up, the kind of case that spans three jurisdictions and involves undercover work and can make or break a detective’s career. As everyone is jostling for the spot, Travis stands in the background, envious because he knows he won’t be chosen, still being a rookie and all, but wanting the job all the same.

Then Dan Noone claps his hand on Travis’s shoulder and says, voice rising above the hubbub, “What about Travis? He’s the best damn actor I’ve ever seen.”

And this is exactly what he wanted, but as all eyes turn to him and his mentor, something in Travis’s stomach clenches and doesn’t release.

\---

35.

After much flirting, the girl at the desk gives them what they need, and Travis grins smugly at his partner. “You’re just jealous,” he murmurs as they walk away, waving the information in Wes’s face. “Admit it. You wish you could do what I can.”

Wes snorts, snatches the paper out of his grasp and absently smooths the rumpled edge. “You’re full of BS,” he snaps, but there’s an almost fond undercurrent to the words, and Travis just grins and his partner shoots back, “You know you love it.”

\---

36.

Sometimes it feels like Wes is the only one who _sees_ him.

\---

37.

_Long after Wes falls back into a drug-induced sleep, after the nurses have given up on trying to kick him out and the lights gave dimmed for the night shift, Travis sits beside Wes’s bed and holds his partner’s hand._

_“I’ve never said this to anyone before,” he whispers, little more than a breath in the near-silent room. “But I need you.”_

_Wes doesn’t move, doesn’t stir. In the thin silver moonlight he looks dead, but his hand is warm in Travis’s and the jagged line keeps moving on the heart monitor._

_“I need you, Wes,” he says again, giving Wes’s hand a little squeeze. “So I need you to be okay.”_

_Wes still doesn’t move, and Travis sits there for a long time, afraid to let go._

\---

38.

(“Couples’ counseling?” Travis asks, and then he laughs, throws his head back and laughs from his belly because he hasn’t heard anything that ridiculous in a _long_ time. “Are you serious?” But one look at Captain Sutton’s face makes the mirth die, makes the laughter stop on his tongue, because it’s obvious that the captain is deadly serious.

And Travis, who doesn’t believe in therapy, who has _never_ believed in therapy, shakes his head. “It’ll never work, Cap.”

“It worked for me,” Sutton says. He sits forward, folds his hands on his desk. “These are your options. Go to couples’ counseling with your partner and work your crap out, or be separated.”

Travis clenches his hands in his lap, something cold and worried bubbling in his gut at those words. He swallows around a suddenly dry throat.

“What did Wes say?”

But the captain merely stares at him blandly. He’s not gonna tell until Travis makes his choice. Or maybe the captain hasn’t even asked Wes yet, and everything hinges on his decision.

Shit.

“What’s it gonna be, Marks?” the captain asks, and Travis takes a breath.)

\---

39.

Travis doesn’t need anyone. He prides himself on _not needing_ anyone. Other people…other people are pain and hurt and betrayal. There’s nothing good there.

Oh, he cares about others. He loves his family, sends flowers to his mothers every year and stays in touch with a ton of foster siblings. He cares about the victims of their crimes, wants justice for their families and friends. He likes his coworkers, enjoys spending time with them, both inside and outside of work.

But he doesn’t _need_ them. He _can’t_. He can’t trust them that far, because everyone leaves. Everyone, always, no exceptions. Travis has been betrayed by the people around him much too often to fall into that trap again. He won’t need anyone, can’t trust them with his everything. _Won’t_.

If he doesn’t give them anything, then they can’t hurt him.

\---

40.

Jason introduces him to drag racing, and it’s—god, it’s _amazing_ , racing down empty streets at impossible speeds, death a heartbeat away at every turn. It’s exhilarating and life-affirming and a sense of freedom he’s never felt in his life, and there’s never been a better adrenaline rush. Riding the knife-edge between speed and collision, life and death, and there’s nothing else, nothing but him and the road and nothing else matters, and sometimes Travis imagines just going and going and never lifting his foot from the pedals.

It’s perfect, a dream come true, until it’s not. One night the cops arrive, and people and cars scatter like rats. Normally Travis would peel out of there, dodge them until he loses them—he’s a better driver than the cops will _ever_ be—and lay low until he can rendezvous with the others.

Except tonight Jason is driving—he’s not as good as Travis is, and the cops are gunning for him. If he gets arrested…

He does the only thing he can. He slows down, draws their attention until Jason can get away. Unfortunately, in the process, he gets arrested himself, but it’s worth it, it’s absolutely worth it if his brother made it out of there. They try to get him to talk, the cops, try to get him to reveal the other driver’s identity, but Travis keeps his mouth shut and doesn’t spill a word. They rough him up a little, but it’s worth it, every bruise and flare of pain.

He finally makes it home, ages later, after holding and bail and a truly dreadful haranguing from his mama. As soon as he steps out of the car, Jason is bounding out of the house, none the worse for wear, and wraps him in a bear hug so tight it sets Travis’s bruises off like fireworks. “You stupid little shit,” Jason murmurs into his shoulder, “You dumb fuck,” and Travis brings his arms up and hugs his brother right back.

Worth it. 

\---

41.

(Twenty years later, Jason stares up at him from the grass, betrayal and anger etched starkly on his face, as sharp and painful as the blood oozing from his shoulder, and Travis feels like a piece of his soul has been yanked out of his body. How could things have changed so much, he wonders. He never told, and it seems obvious Jason expected him to do the same here—taunt him with the lighter knowing he’d keep his mouth shut. But the first chance he got, he spilled it, and he wonders what that says about him.

He watches them load his brother onto a gurney, and Wes wanders over, within arm’s length. Travis thinks about hitting him. Then he thinks about hugging him. He can’t quite decide what to do, so he leaves his hands at his side and does nothing.

“I would have done it,” he blurts, protesting an accusation Wes didn’t make. Fighting the idea that he could be the kind of man who sells out his brother. “I would have taken the shot.”

“I know.” Wes’s voice is calm, non-judgemental, and inexplicably, something in Travis’s chest loosens a little.

“I was there to make sure you didn’t have to.”

It’s not perfect, it can’t make up for the gaping hole in his heart that betraying Jason ripped open, but maybe it’s just become a little more manageable.)

\---

42.

The kid is slumped over the table, forehead resting on his folded arms, and Travis would think he’s asleep except for the way his entire body tenses as they enter the room. Wes sets a cup of water by the kid’s elbow. He doesn’t move, doesn’t look up, but his shoulders hunch around his ears.

The room is silent for a minute, two, filling the room, until finally the kid looks up with bloodshot eyes and snaps, “Just _ask_ already.”

“Why’d you turn yourself in, Cooper?” Travis asks, gentle, because this kid looks about three seconds away from breaking down completely.

The kid exhales, runs his hands over his face. “I’m tired,” he whispers, but it’s loud in the near-silent room. “I’m just…I’m so fucking tired.” He drops his hands, staring at Travis with eyes too big in his sallow face. “You know what it’s like, to run and lie and _hide_ all the fucking time? Gotta always keep moving, can’t trust anyone, can’t let anybody get close enough to catch you. I want to _stop_.” His eyes well, and he drops his head in his hands, shoulders shaking. “I just want to stop.”

Travis has to take a minute in the hall to compose himself. He can’t get his hands to stop shaking.

\---

43.

It’s not that Travis doesn’t trust other people.

He just knows better, is all.

\---

44.

He’s known since the day he was born that he’s alone. He’s got family, friends, but they’re transient, they don’t last forever. In the end, the only one he can _truly_ rely on is himself. 

The only one…

\---

45.

(“I trust Wes,” he says in therapy, telling it to Dr. Ryan, to the group, because it’s easier than telling Wes to his face. “He’s always got my back. I trust him with my life.”

“And you, Wes?” Dr. Ryan asks, turning to Wes. “Do you trust Travis?”

“Of course I do,” Wes snaps, his usual annoyed, sharp, I-hate-this-therapy-crap tone, but the words come automatically, without Wes even needing to think about it, and for a moment Travis is so relieved he feels dizzy with it.)

\---

46.

Travis loves sex. It’s not just the pleasure, he loves _everything_ about it, skin touching, sweat and shared breaths, a casual intimacy as two people become as close as humanly possible. He loves that, for one short period, it’s as much about the other person as it is about him, they’re both working for the same orgasmic goal and he is, for one brief glorious moment, not alone.

Male, female, or in between, it doesn’t make a difference, so long as the other party is willing. Sex is wonderful; sex is amazing; sex is _easy_.

It’s everything else that’s so damn hard.

\---

47.

“Why are you leaving?” Travis asks plaintively, and he hates how whiny he sounds, but he hates this more, hates being left when he’s not sure why (when he can’t prepare. If he sees it coming, if he orchestrates it, that’s different, but this is…).

Dewain sighs, turns away from the door to give him a sad, pensive frown. “Because I’m tired, T. I’m tired of you never being here.”

“What?” Hands out, Travis moves towards the other man. “Baby, I’m right here. I’m always right here.”

“Physically, sure.” Dewain lets go of the doorknob, and Travis takes that as a good sign—until he crosses his arms, and then Travis knows he’s in trouble. “You don’t let me close.”

“You were close last night,” Travis protests.

“I’m not talking about sex, Travis!” Dewain throws his hands up, shakes his head. “I’ve tried, okay? I’ve tried here, but you refuse to open up. You let people get only so close, but there’s this—this _wall_ inside you I can’t get past. And you’re not opening any doors for me. I am _tired_ of trying when you’re not making any effort!”

“That’s not…” Travis doesn’t quite know what to say to that. He wants to argue…but it’s not exactly _wrong_.

Dewain cuts him off. “I hope you find someone you can trust, Travis, I really do. But it’s not gonna be me, and I don’t want to wait around for something you’re not ready to give.”

Travis swallows, takes a step forward. “Please don’t go.” He understands where Dewain is coming from, he _does_ , but Dewain can’t leave. Not like _this_.

The other man sighs, shoulders slumping. “Do you even like me, Travis?”

“Of course I do!” Another quick step forward, hands outstretched once more, reaching for Dewain’s. “You know I do, baby.”

“Do you love me?”

Travis hesitates, flinches, just a second, and Dewain smiles. There’s no anger, no bitterness, just a sad, terrible resignation.

Dewain says, “I’m sorry,” and, “Goodbye,” and the closing door sounds like a gunshot, and Travis is left all alone.

Again.

\---

48.

“You’re looking good,” Paekman says, clapping a hand on Travis’s shoulder. “How’s R&H?”

“Oh man, it’s great. Let me tell you—” Travis launches into explanation, hands waving and swooping through the air as he goes on and on about how totally _awesome_ Robbery-Homicide is and yeah, Narco was cool, but man, the cases he gets now…!

That, of course, eventually leads to a tangent about Wes, because Wes is in every way an integral part of his job. He’s full-steam in a five-minute rant about Wes’s stupid car rules when he realizes Paekman is just sitting there, watching him with this oddly indulgent smile on his face. Travis’s hands pause in midair, and he gives his friend an odd look.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Paekman waves an absent hand. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s totally something. Tell me.”

“I don’t know.” Paekman shrugs, pausing like he’s trying to gather his thoughts. “It’s like…it’s like you’re more open, or something. You’re not holding back as much. It’s good for you.”

Travis frowns. “What, the job?”

And Paekman just gives him this small little smile, like he’s privy to a joke he’s not telling Travis. “That too.”

\---

49.

_He’s there when Wes wakes, when the drugs are a little lighter and Wes’s eyes are a little clearer. He’s there, and he leans forward, smiling gently. “Morning, sunshine.”_

_Wes blinks at him, a slow, soppy smile crossing his face. “Travis,” he says warmly, because the drugs may be lighter today but they’re still coursing through his system, so Travis doesn’t read anything into it._

_“Guess what,” Travis whispers, leaning in. “The doctors say you’re gonna be fine. You’ll be back and bitching about my paperwork in no time.”_

_“Travis,” Wes says again, still smiling that doped-up smile, “I’m glad you’re here.”_

_Travis’s throat is a little tight, but his smile is genuine. He reaches out, pats the back of Wes’s hand. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be, baby,” and it may sound like a line but for once it’s the absolute goddamn truth._

\---

50.

(After, when Travis is finally ready, they sit down, close enough to touch.

“I don’t know how to do this,” Travis confesses, and Wes nods slowly and reaches out, twining their fingers together. 

“I’m right here, Travis,” he murmurs, “I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”

Travis lets out a slow breath and nods. “Okay.”

It’s a start.)

**Author's Note:**

> I can’t remember who came up with the idea that Jason was the reason Travis got arrested for drag racing. It was on tumblr. Kudos to whoever came up with that one, it was a great idea. Hope you don’t mind me borrowing it.


End file.
